Simple and Clean
by keeponwritin
Summary: Shattered, broken, and picking up the pieces. Manny could use a helping hand.


A/N: The fic title is the title of an Utada Hikaru song, one that I dig muchly.

Guys, it hasn't hit me that this is real yet. This is the story idea I've had since, what, like December? I don't actually know how long I've had it, but Chrizzist it's been floating around for a while. And it's really kind of been haunting me. And well, I'm also shipping away to camp in a few days, and I promised I would finish this, and I dig it, and I don't even know what else to say, cause I'm speechless cause it still has yet to hit me. I will try my best to update in those three weeks, but I can't make any promises. Except: guess what? It's **NOT **a one-shot! Yes! Who knew!

Oh, and as for the rating, it's at PG-13 (T) for now, but will almost certainly rise up to R (M) within a few chapters. For this one, PG-13 for uh, some minor druggage and sexuality. Oh, and a bit of language. Cause I couldn't help myself.

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Like there was no tomorrow. That was how I lived in those days. I never wanted to be that tragic song you listened to in your car as raindrops dripped down your window. But every day there was a tomorrow, there I could be found, pretending the obvious truths about everything were plots against me. It all sort of worked better that way. Saying nothing really mattered and that I didn't care about consequences. It's never the truth, though. Maybe some people out there can just live like opinions and repercussions aren't factors in their lives, but I'm not one of them.

I mean, they're factors. But I ignore them. I guess that was the difference.

It was never really my intention to be so jaded, to live so cynically. This was the backlash of the time when I lived the exact opposite--naive, curious, emotional. I was so excited when it all began. Dating boys and kissing boys, and teasing boys and letting everything about boys just consume my life. There was other stuff, I guess, minorly--my friendship with Emma, slowly deteriorating, my self-respect on a similar path. This one time in English class, Ms. Kwan made us do this exercise on how we define ourselves. I sat there and only pretended to do it, because I knew that doing it would only hurt me. What probably killed me most was that I avoided self-reflection, those quiet opportunities to think about myself. I filled my life with noise and colorful distractions and avoided mirrors. I realize now that at that point in time, I wasn't defined by my age or my race or my religion or even my friends. I was what the world thought I was, but not because the world took a lucky guess. Because I became what they thought I was.

It never hurt me until I realized it, I guess. What could be so bad about it, anyway? Everyone knows the truth when you make their lies reality. At the time, the only thing hurting me was the way people talked about me. It never once occurred to me that the way I was acting should hurt me, that most people would feel ashamed to be the school tramp.

And I guess that's the irony in all of this. Now I'm here, now I'm so much smarter, and I still have to deal with repercussions of those days of naiveté. Or maybe that's not ironic. Maybe that's the way the world works. Fixing the problems we created when we didn't understand.

But the sad part is, I'll never understand.

It was one of those idle Sunday mornings, slightly overcast, the flowers' colors muted. This was back before anything--when my underwear wasn't a piece of floss, when boys were something to giggle about, when I loved Emma more than anyone else in the world. Back in the days where I would sleep over Emma's, and talk and talk and talk all night and then fall asleep in two minutes flat. I loved mornings at Emma's house. I loved not hearing my mother yelling at my brother for getting in past three the night before while my brother yelled back and my father yelled at everyone to stop yelling. I loved Emma's mom, gently touching my shoulder and luring me out of my sleep slowly. I loved coming to the breakfast table in my PJ's, Emma, her mom and her stepdad already sitting there, eating pancakes and sipping orange juice. The world seemed so calm.

I slipped into my seat next at the square table to the right of Emma, who was always up before me, no matter what. I smiled sheepishly, trying to give my apology without words.

Good of you to join us, Emma teased, smiling before placing a small triangle of unbuttered, unsyruped pancake in her mouth.

Spike said, warningly, but with a smile on her face, too, showing she knew they were both joking. Spike had always been the mother I never had. She didn't overreact or flip out. She understood her daughter. She just wasn't an adult. She was a confidant. I guess that's just what happens when you have your daughter when you're only a kid. You're still personally trying to have fun, so you both have fun, unlike my mom.

I said quietly, before picking up my glass and taking a small swig of orange juice. The healthy kind, with the pulp, pulp you could feel going down your throat in lumps. I'm... not a morning person.Believe me, we know, Emma replied, rolling her eyes good-naturedly.

The breakfast continued on silently for a while, until I was about halfway through my pancakes. I felt bad, as I always seemed to do when people were silent around me, so I made my attempt at being mannerly.

These pancakes are really good, I said quickly as I smiled at Spike, trying to say it before I thought about it and realized how dumb I sounded. There was an awkward lull as Spike fidgeted in her chair, politely smiling.

Please, Manny, Emma said, breaking the silence. Like she can even stand up with that stomach. Emma was too preoccupied tittering away at her own joke to realize I was sinking in my chair and feeling like an imbecile.

'That stomach' is your baby brother, Spike said, her tone as playful as always.

Actually, Manny, Snake said, while Spike and Emma had their little moment, apart from the rest of the world. I made them. Snake's voice always seemed just like it was in class: informative, gently demanding attention. I glanced up and across the table, met with his light eyes and slight proud smile. It had been almost a year since that day Emma e-mailed me in class with the news that her mom was dating Mr. Simpson, but I don't think it had set in, even then as I sat there in the Simpson-Nelson residence kitchen, Emma seeing nothing weird about the situation, Spike pregnant with their child. I almost began to think your teacher becoming your best friend's stepdad was more awkward than your teacher becoming your own stepdad. With your stepdad, you'll inevitably have those awkward moments where you have to talk about your period, or who you like--_from_ school. But as Emma's best friend, every time I came over, he got only a faint glimpse into my life, and then it vanished. He might only hear me talking about a boy or see me groggy and disheveled in the morning, but I felt like, things outside the school environment stuck with you. The worlds don't really collide as well, things don't fit where they should. Emma just knows when she can call him Snake or Archie or Mr. Simpson, but I didn't have that luxury. I don't know, maybe it was just my imagination, but all through grade eight, every time he'd hold me after class for being late or forgetting homework, I felt like he wasn't as lenient on me. I felt like he held me to this higher standard, trying to keep me a good influence on his stepdaughter. Too bad I never had anyone like that. Maybe things wouldn't have turned out the way they did.

I said, feeling my cheeks burn but having no control over them. Should I repeat what I said? Should I say thanks? Sometimes I wished he hadn't said anything in the first place.

They're wonderful, honey, Spike said adoringly, leaning over for one of those adult kisses, the short but sticky-sweet peck. It didn't occur to me until after the fact that I'd been watching the whole time, and maybe you weren't supposed to. We _both_ thank you, she added with a smile, her arm cradled around her round middle. I noticed as his hand reached over to grasp hers, and they just sat there for a while, staring into each other's eyes with lovesick smiles. Eventually, Emma caught my attention and began talking about... I don't know, some project or new environmental show or video or something, but I couldn't stop myself from envying them. I wanted to be that girl, in love, in love with carrying the child of the man I loved, consumed by love. I wanted kids and I wanted sticky-sweet kisses and I wanted to tuck them into bed every night before slipping into my own bed, and falling asleep in his arms. I wanted passion, I wanted life.

But this was all I got.

Grade eleven neared to a close now, threatening me with the idea of being a senior when my mind was still back in grade six. Though I guess when I was in grade six, I wouldn't be at a party like this, dressed like this, doing what I was. It was some Bardell kid's party--Degrassi kids' parties had always been lame, but this left me knowing no one. Everyone around me was intoxicated in one way or another, so it felt wrong not to be, but I'd always hated beer, and most of what was laying around was just that. So I'd grabbed the vodka I think someone had left out by mistake while raiding the household liquor cabinet. And the world had gotten nice in this corner of the world I'd etched out for myself, on the edge of a musty brown couch in some rich kid's basement. I leaned back into the cushions, the kind of cushions that seemed to suck you in. Every once in a while, kids would sit down next to me and try to make conversation. Stupid conversation, like about where I went to school and how old I was. And sometimes, the kid next to him would pass him a bong and then he'd offer me a hit. I'd always smile, like I appreciated the offer, but decline. And they'd either sit there and forget I existed, or move on, like some conquest to find a female stoner to fill the voids in their lives. I kept sipping at my bottle, its contents burning their way down to my stomach. I'd gotten used to the burn. I think I liked the burn.

The whole scene was so typical, so familiar. It had stopped being fun and became habit months before this one. But it was how I got through the week. I didn't drink to get wasted. Things like that never helped me much--the morning after just brought me down again anyway. I guess the truth was, I came to drown my sorrows in life. It was dazed and inebriated, but it was life, and just its presence reminded me that I didn't matter. But in a good way, I guess. A realistic way.

My hair, stick straight and slightly greasy, kept getting in my face, sticking to me with the sweat accumulating on my temples. My lip gloss was drying out on my lips, becoming like adhesive. I felt a bead of sweat dripping down my lower back. I smiled just a little, or maybe just on the inside. No one knew me.

A boy came crashing down on the couch next to me after it'd been empty for a while. He leaned forward with his elbows to his knees, clutching his cigarette between his middle and index fingers--the way the cool kids did it. He took a slow drag. He glanced back at me for a second, then did a double take, actually looking at me the second time. He crushed his cigarette down on the glass table, still looking at me.

Holy shit, man, he said, without any hint of emotion. You Manuela Santos? he asked as he nodded towards me. He had bleach blonde hair, hanging in his eyes, and a five o'clock shadow. He was awful-looking.

Who's asking? I said, cocking my head and giggling, the near-empty bottle resting between the cushions. I could feel the smooth glass on the thin strip of flesh my shirt revealed.

Shit, man, don't you remember me? he asked, half-offended, half-giddy. Sully's party, man. With the tube top and all? That shit was bangin', man. You still with him? He wiped his nose with his finger. That bitch still owes me money. You know we went to soccer camp together? We were like, effing, I don't know, eight or twelve or something, and we played effin' soccer together. He leaned in closer, with the most smug smirk I'd seen in a while. He was ugly. He was so ugly. Hey, hey, you still go down on guys for thirty? Some time between when he'd begun to talk and when I'd actually tuned in to listen to him, my face fell into a stupor--bleary eyes, mouth agape. I probably looked enamored. Fifty all the way. I'd never felt more alone than when I sat there with this guy and let him staple a price tag into my side.

I reached out and touched a strand, a straggly golden string. The closer I came, the more I reeked of cigarette smoke, the more I wanted to reek of cigarette smoke. And soon his tongue was in my mouth, and his hands grappled at the button of my jeans, and his weight was on me, quickly pushing me against the arm of the couch, hurting my back. I didn't know who he was. Should I have? I felt alcohol boiling in my stomach, fermenting in my brain. His little moaning, grunting noises were stuck in my mind. The room was spinning in slow motion, like this silent carousel. It was suddenly cold, and I spotted my green shirt lying on the floor. His hips were grinding into mine, his slobbering lips trailing down my neck. I looked around. People were staring. I was still smiling, but I wasn't sure what to blame it on this time.

Suddenly there was a vibration against my thigh, and he abruptly rolled off of me, only one leg still draped over mine. He pulled the cell phone out of his pocket, flipping it open. Shit, Gina, I heard him mutter under his breath. He looked over at me, regret written across his face. Shit, sorry, baby, I gotta take this one outside. He picked up his shirt and was putting it on as he pulled the phone to his ear and walked up the stairs. I sat there, still shirtless, feeling like the whole room was staring at me. I blinked widely like a newborn. For the first time in a while, I had a desire to leave. I left the bottle slipped between the cushions as I slipped my shirt back over my head. I stumbled a little bit to my feet. I'd drunk more than I'd wanted to. I tried to think of places I could stay, but a headache was fast approaching. My eyes were barely open as I opened the back door, slipping away into the silent vacuum of the outdoors. And I slipped through backyards and patios and private driveways, walking like my ankles might snap any second. I fell at least twice on someone's stone walkway, leaving me with scrapes across my knees and my palms.

The light illuminating my mother's face as she sat there at the kitchen table was soft and beautiful. Her head was down with her elbows resting on the table, but you could see her painted red lips, and the streaks of drying tears down her face. I pulled myself up the creaking steps ploddingly in my muddy sneakers. I left stains across the carpet, across the innocent pink of my room. I ran a hand across my damp forehead as I flipped the switch to my room. Across the pink blinds and stuffed animals on the bed, and my tie-dyed sheets. I kicked off my shoes, and flipped the switch back down again. I laid myself down over the pink comforter and removed the pillow from under my head. Even I didn't even bother to understand myself sometimes. Not sure why anyone else would. All I knew was my heart was weighing me down, full of dismal truths and regrets. It was ironic, though. This one place I didn't mind falling apart, but it always pulled me back together, if only for one night.


End file.
